and then there were Two
by BleedingHeartConservative
Summary: What happens when Christine learns of Erik’s death? Characters based on Leroux. Plot entirely from my imagination with one small idea borrowed from another classic which I choose not to reveal here because it would give away the ending . Please review!
1. Part I

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, just the plot twists.

Note to readers: Characters based entirely on the Leroux version of the _Phantom of the Opera_. Plot based _almost_ entirely on my own imagination (with just one small idea borrowed from another classic work which I choose not to reveal because it would give away the ending I'm planning, which I would prefer you reach on your own; but when you get there, you'll most definitely recognize the other work if you've read it because it's also rather famous). Oh yeah--and the characters listed in the description are accurate, so don't let the beginning throw you.

As always, many thanks for reading, and enjoy!

BHC

* * *

He finished reading the paper and laid it aside, just as she reached for the jam. They both giggled amusedly as the paper got in the way of the knife and jam oozed down the back page of the advertisements. When they got over their amusement, sighing and catching their breath, she spread some jam on her croissant while he poured more coffee for them both.

They were the perfect couple: she was slender and beautiful with fair hair, sparkling blue eyes and full rosy lips; he was tall, thin but muscular with a boyish face and, when he was in her presence, a constant smile. He had dark hair which he combed back with the fingers of his right hand, and which continually fell forward to his mild annoyance and her endless delight.

"My darling" he said softly, learning forward, yearning towards her lips, and then, finding she had just taken a rather hefty bite of her croissant, kissing her hand instead. She smiled around chewing, put her hand in front of her mouth, murmured something. "What's that love?" he asked, leaning closer. She swallowed, dapped her mouth with her napkin, then leaned toward him. He wrapped his arms around her tightly and gave her one, single prolonged kiss. "I hate to leave here," he said softly.

"I hate to have you go," murmured she, placing her head on his shoulder, reaching her far arm around to touch the side of his face, play with a lock of his hair, tuck it behind his ear and then trail slowly down his shoulder and across his chest.

"But I must," he said softly, and the way he dragged out the words sounded almost like child's whine, just more mature.

She smiled at the thought of it. He had not changed much over the years. She gazed into his eyes. "Indeed you must. I will miss you my darling, but I will be right here waiting for you when you get home."

He kissed her again, tenderly and stood. "I'd best be on my way before I completely lose my force of will and stay."

"Goodbye my sweet," she said. And then, as he pushed his chair in she inquired "Hand me the paper please?"

"Of course, darling!" He lifted it, folded it into one hand, grasped his napkin with the other and in a single graceful motion whisked all the jam from the back page.

"A little jam won't hurt me," she giggled, putting the last bite of her croissant into her mouth and licking her fingers seductively.

"You stop that," he said playfully, or you won't a chance to read the paper at all!"

"All right, all right. Go then," she moaned teasingly, taking the paper from him and shaking it a little to open it. "Go on" she said from behind the paper, pretending to try to look uninterested.

"All right. I really must go. Good day my Little Lotte." He placed both hands on the top of her head, kissed her on the forehead and bounded out the door before he could change his mind again.

"Good day Raoul," Christine murmured softly to the closing door.

She turned her attention to the paper. She had plenty of time to clean up and far too many servants to help her, so needed to draw out each activity, make everything take as much time as possible in order to occupy her thoughts until he arrived home again. There was so little to do here! She read slowly, giving the journalists voices in her head, imagining them speaking each word, considering the meaning of each article, each sentence, indeed each very word, carefully. After a time, she turned the page. At last she came to the advertisements. The clock in the parlor chimed. She counted. But scarcely eleven o'clock! Oh, how could time pass so slowly? She skimmed the first two advertisements then went back. Skimming made things go so dreadfully much faster. She must avoid it, for what would she do when she finished reading this?

Many of the advertisements were not really that at all—they were, rather, personal messages from individuals to other individuals, often including cryptic language. For example, she had once read one that read:

O.G. –there is no excuse for R and M. We told them and left your memorandum-book in their hands. Kind regards.

Now, no one save those for whom this message was intended could possibly have known that R and M stood for Monsieur Richard and Monsieur Moncharmin, her two former managers when she had performed at the Opéra Garnier. Stranger still, the message was addressed to O.G.—"Opera Ghost" and referenced an amount to be paid to the ghost by the current managers. The message was from the preceding managers, and those who understood the message—Moncharmin and Richard themselves, took it to be a terrible joke. Christine smiled at her memory of the Opera Ghost. He had been her friend, though she had called him the Angel of Music instead. In reality, he was merely a man, but he had been her friend.

Well—it was true that he had been a bit more than a friend at times. Having lost her father and believed that her father sent this Angel to her, Christine looked to him as a messenger from her father, and at times, like a father himself, at least at first. He became her teacher, her tutor, her mentor. Later, she learned of his tormented past and she pitied him. She aroused his anger and came to fear him. She saw his face and came to dread him as an accursed monster. And yet, she heard his voice and felt something pulling her, drawing her nearer and nearer to him, willing her to look past his horrid appearance. Ah, yes, he had been far more than a friend, though never quite a lover. Her face was a mixture of conflicting emotions as she sat there at the breakfast table in her fiancee's large glass-enclosed dining area. She smiled at the fond memories while her eyes misted over in sorrow for the pain she'd caused him when she simply could not get past...

She blinked. She shook her head. She would never forget him. She hummed the words to a song she'd sung one night not so long ago at the Opera, "Think of Me." Strange how every word of that song perfectly detailed how she felt about him. No, it was never meant to be, she thought. But I do desperately hope he does still think of me... Well, of course he does. She smiled again. He was not the type who would forget. He was wildly passionate about everything—music, love, life, death. No, he was not the type to forget.

She caught herself staring off into space and jerked herself back to reality. Ah yes. The paper. She went back to the advertisements.

She stopped.

She felt the blood drain from her face and a cold chill seep into her spine.

She was not breathing. She dropped the paper to the table, clutched her throat wildly, forced her mind to focus on this one desperate act: breathe; live.

She gasped. She ran her hands across her face as though to push back her hair. It was a nervous habit; her hair neatly pinned up. Her hands felt cold against her face. She closed her eyes. No, I'm mistaken she thought. She looked again.

Sure enough.

Erik is dead.


	2. Part II

* * *

Disclaimer: Still don't own anything more than I owned during part I.

* * *

No. Can't be. Not possible. She turned the paper back to the front, checked to make sure of what she was reading. The _Epoque_. Reliable, as papers went. She tore back to the advertisements. No. It's a—a—mistake. A misprint. Or a cruel joke.

Yes. A cruel joke. Her eyes narrowed. Yes, a cruel joke. Exactly the type of cruel joke her dear old friend would play on the world, wasn't it? Of course it was. But what was the point? So few knew his real name. She did, two or three others, including Raoul, whom she had told. What could be the purpose of such a joke?

Ah, yes! To get to her. For her friend was sometimes terribly cruel. A result of his horrid past, no doubt, but that didn't make it any easier to endure him. Surely this was a last jab at her, perhaps to make her feel guilt or simply to toy with her mind, to console himself that while she may be betrothed to another, he still wields power over her. Yes, this must be it.

"Well done, Erik," she whispered. "You almost had me that time. I almost fell for that one." She sighed. Read the next advertisement, then the next and then next.

She stopped again.

What if that wasn't all he'd hoped to accomplish? He had power over her, yes... but the power to make her jump and quiver, miles away at her fiancee's country estate was, though intriguing, hardly a useful power at all.

The realization sunk into her slowly like a shadow of something terrible looming.

He did this to draw me back.

For he had made a promise to her. He sent her off for her own happiness, but first he made a promise that he would ensure that she was informed of his death when it came time. She, in turn, had promised to return to him, return the ring he'd given her, place it on his finger, and see that he was buried in the place where he had first held her in his arms. She closed her eyes and could feel his trembling arms about her now. She felt faint. She opened her eyes, gripped the table. Yes. This message was a message for her, she felt sure. He was calling her to keep her promise, the promise to bury him. But surely he could not be dead so soon, for it had been only three weeks since the promise was made.

She felt her lips curl into a strange smile. He calls for me, she thought. There is no telling what he will do with me once I am there, but he knows that this message will call me to him.

She was on her feet before she reached the end of the thought. She was in her closet, dressing hurriedly in a travel dress. She was running down the hall calling to the servants to get her a carriage. She was hastily writing a letter to Raoul explaining that she'd had some urgent business to attend to, would explain later, do not worry, my dearest love—and she cringed as she wrote that part, but it was true. She loved Raoul entirely, though not desperately, not passionately—I will travel safely and return promptly. Sincerely, yours always and forever, Christine, and she sealed it in an envelope and pressed it into the maid's hand, then snatched it away again and left it in a place she knew Raoul would find it and asked that the maid instead direct him to it rather than hand it to him. This way, if the maid forgot, Raoul might still find the letter. He mustn't worry. She mustn't worry him, the poor dear, no telling what would become of him if he didn't know where she was. Then she was running again, to her room, to the closet, then back down the long corridor with her shawl. The carriage was just outside. She was running, throwing open the door of the carriage without waiting for the doorman. Then she was sitting, but in her mind she was running still, leaning forward urging the driver to urge the horses still faster, for she could not wait.


	3. Part III

Disclaimer: Still own nothing. Duh.

* * *

Christine crossed the lake from the Rue Scribe side just as Erik had instructed she should do at his death. She reached the house out of breath for she had run ever step of the way that could be run. She burst through the door crying his name aloud, her voice so full of joy that she herself found it strange. She had thought of him only in passing these past three weeks; why was she so energized at the potential for contact now? She had dreaded his appearance in the past; why was she so eager to see him again now? But it mattered not, for her heart pounded with joyous anticipation and her face flushed with passion. She had missed him tremendously, though she had ignored her thoughts, repressed her feelings, distracted herself into oblivion. It was true she loved Raoul, but only Erik could thrill her. Only silence greeted her.

"Erik!" she called, screamed, really, for she was beginning to anger. Perhaps his joke was crueler that she'd expected. Perhaps he'd lured her here only to leave her yearning for him as he had for her. She stood perfectly still and felt her longing desperately. Oh, how he must have suffered if he'd felt even a tenth of this. And oh, for how long she had put him through it! She readily believed she did not deserve to find him now.

"Erik!" she screamed again, regardless. "Please Erik, let the joke be over now. I'll do whatever you ask, just show yourself to me!" She caught her breath. He would appear now, suddenly, frightening her. She must ensure she does not scream. To scream would make him think fear and loathing again, and it would end most bitterly. No, no matter from whence he comes or how suddenly, I will not scream, she thought fiercely. She waited, on guard, for several minutes. No response.

How peculiar, she thought. What is the point in bringing me here if not to be here to meet me when I arrive? Unless that were the point—to let her suffer as he had suffered, but even then, it would only be effective revenge if he had the opportunity to witness it. Therefore, he must be hiding somewhere here.

He wanted her to search for him. Anything you wish, she thought. She began on tiptoe, elaborately pretending like a child seeking a playmate in a game of hide-and-find. He was not in the closet of the Louis-Philippe room. He was not in the bathroom attached to it. He was not behind the tapestry, nor behind the sofa in the parlor. He was not hiding behind the door, nor outside it. She stood carefully in the doorway and listened, remember his underwater trick with the reed. No, he wouldn't be _there_, she thought. She peered at walls carefully. Anywhere could be a door about which I have no knowledge, she thought, and she began to walk along the wall, knocking, tapping, softly calling his name.

To no avail. He was not behind the wall.

"Erik, this isn't fun anymore!" she wailed like a child. "Show yourself this instant or I shall go away and never ever come back to you again."

Silence.

"I shall go away and never come back again, and I shall marry Raoul as I have said. But I won't wear your ring every day and I won't promise to return when you send for me, for you will have hurt me terribly and I shant forgive it if you don't show yourself now!"

Nothing.

"And I won't think of you. I won't remember you. I will forget you entirely. I will forget so entirely that I won't even recall that I have forgotten anything. I shall forget how to sing, Erik. I shall forget it all."

Still silence.

She broke into angry tears. How unfair he was being! How spiteful and inconsiderate!

But as she wiped her eyes, she caught sight of the mask, and her heart leapt. Then she realized it was setting alone on the mantle piece. She reached for it, caressed it lovingly. How might things had been different if she'd always left it in its rightful place? She quivered with remorse. It was her fault. If she'd driven him away, she deserved it. And she'd done it again! She'd just screamed at him, threatened him, and ultimately abandoned him all over again.

"I didn't mean it!" she yelled. "Not a single solitary word of it, Erik. Not a word. I was just angry. We're perhaps more alike than I could have realized, aren't we? Look at the terrible things we do in anger!"

But _still_, there was no sound. Helplessly, she resumed her childish game, looking in bizarre places where he could not possibly fit—like under the sofa, in the cabinets of the modest kitchen, in the sugar bowl. She became entirely hopeless, listlessly wandering from room to room looking about absently, entering and re-entering the same places, the mask clutched in her fist.

How silly, she suddenly realized. She hadn't looked in his room! He could be sitting at the organ waiting to play for her. He could be hiding behind one of the many curtains. He could even—she shuddered—be hiding in that terrible coffin in which he always slept. He may, she thought, perhaps even have fallen asleep then, which explained why he did not respond. Of course, she had yelled loud enough to wake the dead, practically, so he really had no excuse, except if he were hiding.

She really hoped he wouldn't leap out suddenly and frighten her. Or creep up behind her quietly and frighten her. Oh, please let him be at the organ, waiting...

Holding her breath, she pushed open the door. No Erik. She looked behind all the curtains. She ran her fingers over the organ as she passed. She paused, glanced at the wildly scrawled red notes. This was a different piece—one she had never seen before. She skimmed the staves quickly noting the numerous changes in tempo, key changes into minor chords, strange crescendos... But _where was he_? The morbid fellow! He had to be in that coffin. She crept close, peered inside.


	4. Part IV

For the second time that day, she went cold. Her cheeks turned pale, her fingers grew chilled, her feet felt numb beneath her. His countenance was strange and lifeless. She remembered all the times she'd described him to Raoul as a death's head and she felt ill. He had never looked this way before. His skin had a greyish cast and his hollow but commanding eyes were entirely vacant. She felt frantic. She grabbed at him, carelessly pulling at him, tapping—then slapping—him, first on the chest, then on the cheek, then pounding with her fists, for the body was cold and rigid. She grasped his hand in hers. Oh! How many times she had yanked her hand away in fear, in loathing. And all because they were cold? Bony? She had said they smelled of death, but it wasn't exactly true. It had been so many years since she'd smelled death, but now she remembered it, and this wasn't how she remembered him. She couldn't bear the sight of him in the coffin. She dragged him out, struggling under the dead weight, but she could not carry him and managed only to lay him on the cold stone slab of the floor beside it—far worse a fate than the coffin itself.

Something in the back of her mind cried out that not being able to lift him was going to be a problem, but she was too frenzied to notice it. She shook him, hit him, screamed at him. "Wake up!" she shrieked until she thought her voice would give out. She fell to weeping, her hands groping for his lifeless form. Then suddenly she struck him again, with a fist and with far more force. "How _dare_ you?" she cried. How dare you leave me like this? You take the easy way out and you _leave me behind_?" Even as she said the words she felt a hideous guilt, for it was she who had taken the easy way out. It was she who had left him behind.

She couldn't remain angry long in the face of her overwhelming guilt, and she fell to sobbing again. "Oh, God!" she sobbed, "Let me do it over! I'll do anything. I won't leave him this time. Or I won't take off the mask in the first place. Or ever. Well, unless he grants me permission first. No. I'll never agree to the lessons without seeing him—and I'll be prepared for what I'll see. And when he takes my hand, I won't snatch it away so quickly. No, better still, I'll offer my hand. I could do so much differently, oh if only..."

She knew she was being irrational, but she could not stop. Her entire world had suddenly ended. She rocked back and forth over his motionless form, wailing. In her grief, she had completely forgotten Raoul as well as everything else. Eternity consisted only of Erik, and Erik is dead.

I will make up for it yet, she thought. She embraced him.

"Erik," she said. "Erik, my love, I'm here. Do you see that I am here?" She tried to imagine his delighted response, the way he would reach for her... "I will never leave you again, do you understand me? You need to know that if I could do it all over again, I would, and I would behave differently towards you. I would be kinder, gentler, as you wished me to be. As _you_ wished to be. And because I was kind to you, you would be kind, too. And we would be together. And it wouldn't matter." She attempted to imagine a response and saw him skeptical, disbelieving in her mind's eye.

"Do you hear me, Erik? It _doesn't matter_. It never _really_ mattered. I don't know what I was thinking, what came over me. Maybe I wasn't ready for such a commitment, maybe I needed time to figure out what were my feelings for—" she actually struggled to bring the other man's name to present memory "—him. I don't know what it was, but it wasn't you. It wasn't _that_. That was just my excuse, and I am so _so_ sorry. I am so sorry I hurt you." The words made what she'd always known more poignant. Her voice trembled. "Oh, God! I hurt you!"

She lay sobbing by his side for an untold amount of time. When she finally dragged herself to her feet, she was a changed woman. She moved with purpose. She made a thorough, though frenetic search of the house. She searched the area outside. She returned to his room, knelt by his side. She stroked his hair. "Listen carefully," she hissed in his ear, as though he could actually understand her. "I will come back. This is true. I will be gone but a moment, and then _I will come back._

It was almost true. Though her eyes were filmy from her tears, she managed to get to the gondola, across and back, in an incredibly short amount of time considering the circumstances. She pushed her way across, followed paths she had come to know well without tripping or stumbling at all. She reached the point in the passageway behind her old dressing room. She touched the wall, looked through the mirror into the place she remembered, then fell to the ground running her hands over the smooth hard surface. It was no use. It was no use at all! She hurried back faster than she had gone, across the lake, into the house and believed, only for a moment, that perhaps it had all been a dream. He would be waiting for her in the parlor. No, by the organ. No.

On the floor. Where she left him. Of course. She left him. Oh, never again!

She wrapped her arms around him, pulled and half-lifted, half-dragged him a little way toward the parlor. This wouldn't do. She made one last attempt that confirmed she had not the strength to move his body. She had failed in more ways than one. But she would redeem herself yet.

She raced to the Louis-Philippe room, ransacked the bed, dragged the bedding and pillows to his room and arranged a comfortable bed on the floor. She was certainly able to move him that far, and she did. She lovingly pulled up blankets, folded them neatly around him, closed his eyes with a gentle hand, kissed his cheek, stepped toward the organ and looked back. He looked almost peaceful. Almost like he was asleep in bed. Poor angel, she thought, how long has it been since you slept in a bed?

The score to _Don Juan Triumphant_ was nowhere to be found. She searched the house as thoroughly as was possible without knowledge of the hidden passages. Was she to fail yet a third time? Could this be his final revenge? Leaving her with the guilt of having not performed her duties, not kept her word _again_, broken what had turned out to be a deathbed promise? Could he really be that cruel, or was it the world that was cruel to them both? No time to think on that now!

She inspected the music at the organ. It was decidedly not _Don Juan Triumphant_, though it was equally passionate and equaled or perhaps even exceeded _Don Juan's_ range of human emotion. She turned pages back and forth until she found the beginning. It's title--a single word--her name. Tears fell upon the pages, mingled with the scrawled red notes, blurred a few measures.

She bound up this new masterpiece and carried it, crying again, to the pathetic bundle on the floor. She folded back the sheet, brought his arms over it, pressed the score of his final work to him and wrapped his left arm around it.

She removed the ring he had given her, placing it on his finger with her eyes closed, imagining how pleased he would have been to have been able to experience that in life.

She cast about with her eyes. Where was it? Yes... the parlor. She dashed to the parlor, gripped the mask in two hands, then solemnly walked back to his room.

She held the mask to the light and looked at it carefully. She looked at him again. She knelt and reached for his right hand. "This time," she said firmly, "and forever after this moment—" she pressed the mask into his right hand, instead of onto his face— "it will be your choice. Yours and yours alone."

She gazed at him in the soft light of the gas lamps. How beautiful he truly was. How was it that she had never seen it before? Had she ever really seen _him_ before? But no matter. It was time. She needed just one more thing, and it would not be hard to find. She rose, laid hands on the Punjab lasso and returned. She knelt at this side yet again, speaking tenderly into his ear, believing he could hear her.

"Forgive me, my love. I have broken yet another promise to you, you who has always kept his promises! I cannot get you to the well behind my mirror. I could not dig there if I could, for I can find no tools, and the ground is far too firm besides. I cannot even find the score to _Don Juan Triumphant_, with which you asked to be buried. But I have returned your ring. It is the best I could do. I do hope you will forgive me. She looked about her "Oh to be denied everything, even the choice of your final resting place and burial!" she cried. "But look around you, dear. The organ is right here. It's best this way, is it not? You could not spend eternity so far from it, could you? I could leave further instructions, if you wish. But behind my dressing room... surely there are more bad memories than good wrapped up in that place!" Her eyes had a far away look, and she seemed to be listening to something in the distance. "Then it's all right, then? Good, then we're agreed.

"Erik" she said, leaning close, "I promise you... Do you know that I will henceforth keep all my promises to you? I am so sorry for all my broken promises!" She covered him with her tears, and when she was through kissed him passionately and whispered, "_I will never leave you. _Do not doubt me."

It was done in only a moment. It took but a single bound to the organ bench, one quick twist to throw the rope around the rafter, another twist to tie it off, a swift duck of the head, and a flying leap.

She died there, above him.

* * *

Wait, folks. Don't leave. I know that sounds like the end, but there is, unbelievably enough, still more to come. Hang in there with me for Part V, which I'm still typing. You must return!

* * *


	5. Epilogue

The details of their discovery the reader surely will not wish to know, for the particulars are quite gruesome. Suffice to say, however, that they were eventually found and given a proper burial—together. People came to regard them as a modern Romeo and Juliet, and spoke kindly of them both, as though they had not envied her and feared him, as though they had been old true friends of them both, as though it were a tragic but otherwise usual event to find dead in the basement recesses of an Opera a disfigured starved genius and a once-lovely flourishing ingénue less than half his age but desperately and secretly in love with him.

And when the horror of their deaths faded and the mess was all but forgotten, guests returned to the Opera as they always had before, and performers continued to dance and to sing, and in short, all the wonderful spectacles of the Opera went on without change. Certainly, there were a few old friends who missed them both, for Madame Giry and her daughter Meg stayed on, and Madame could never forget either of them for more than a moment. The Persian, perhaps out of habit or perhaps something else, continued to frequent the Opera as well, though he found it disconcertingly empty despite the large crowds. All in all, though, the show went on, as shows always must.

Until one afternoon at practice when something suddenly spooked the young dancers again, and, like the time before, into La Sorelli's room they went: some giggling, some crying out, all clutching one another and shrieking. Amid the confusion La Sorelli managed to discern that a new dancer by the name of Charlotte had arrived early and noticed near the stage two figures who stood face to face in an embrace singing a strange but joyous song in angelic voices. Enchanted, Charlotte quickly found her friend Meg, who was at the head of a large group of young girls reporting to practice, and asked her who were these marvelous singers. But Meg took one look and cried out in terror, whereupon all the other dancers turned and fled, screaming. Poor Charlotte couldn't understand why her question grieved everyone so and was, perhaps, the most upset of all. Before it could be discussed, however, Madame Giry strode in purposefully and demanded to be told what the matter was.

"Oh!" cried Meg, "Oh Mama, we saw Christine on stage, Mama!" and when her mother opened her mouth to rebuke her for such talk, she cried out again "Go and look Mama! _There's Christine and a man là-bas, and I dare not enter_!" Madame Giry hushed the girls and escorted them back to practice, where she saw no one, but Meg insisted that as they reached the stage door she saw them depart quickly off the other side of the stage. And though she had never actually seen Erik while he lived, she described him quite accurately and said that upon hearing her gasp he had seemed to startle, then had quickly placed a mask over his face and escorted Christine across the stage and off into the wings.

Of course, opera folk are peculiar and superstitious, and it is entirely likely that the entire incident was purely a result of the overactive imaginations of young dancers.

But Madame Giry can tell you that a voice still speaks to her from Box Five. In fact, whomever belongs to the voice is in attendance far more often than in the past and now nearly _always_ requests a footstool for his lady who rather often absentmindedly leaves her fan behind. And that curious fellow the Persian, still constantly about without a clear reason, claims that although the murders have stopped, the underground passageways and a boat on a lake far below are still very much in use. And now that they are no longer plagued with constant demands for money or to make changes to the casts of their performances, managers Monsieur Richard and Monsieur Moncharmin have finally resigned themselves to the idea and perpetually leave Box Five empty for their Opera Ghosts.

They say that late at night after the guests have gone home and the performers have gone to sleep, if you are patient and quiet, if you are the type of person who could understand and accept them both as they are, and if you are just a little bit afraid, but not very, you may be fortunate enough to hear them singing.

—_fini_—

* * *

Hey folks! Just because it's already finished doesn't mean that I don't desperately need the reviews! I LOVE the feedback, need lots of encouragement and always take constructive criticism, so anything you are willing to leave will be much appreciated. If you can't think of anything really original to say, you can always just say "Hey. Read your story and liked didn't like it." Thanks in advance.

* * *


End file.
